


Turn Me Inside Out

by dapperyklutz



Series: Give Geralt Love [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But he ultimately uses his words, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Pining, Protective!Geralt, Touch-Starved, protective!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperyklutz/pseuds/dapperyklutz
Summary: “Oh, aren’t you a poor, lovesick one,” the sorceress simpers. She tilts her head, a mischievous smile on her face as she hums thoughtfully at Geralt. “Touch-starved, too. Gods, it must behorriblebeing a Witcher. All that sacrifice for the greater good has done shit for you. Tell me, when was the last time you didn’t pay someone to touch you?”Geralt growls in response, gloved hand tightening on the hilt of his silver sword as he ignores the pang in his chest at the cruel words.Or: Geralt gets turned into a teen, Jaskier finds him adorable, and along the way Geralt finally learns to use his words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Give Geralt Love [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859470
Comments: 40
Kudos: 662
Collections: Geralt Fluff Week 2020





	Turn Me Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 Prompt: Magic
> 
> Well, this whole thing came out of left field.

“Oh, aren’t you a poor, lovesick one,” the sorceress simpers. She tilts her head, a mischievous smile on her face as she hums thoughtfully at Geralt. “Touch-starved, too. Gods, it must be _horrible_ being a Witcher. All that sacrifice for the greater good has done shit for you. Tell me, when was the last time you didn’t pay someone to touch you?”

Geralt growls in response, gloved hand tightening on the hilt of his silver sword as he ignores the pang in his chest at the cruel words. It’s really not the time let his guard down.

However, before he can take a step forward, the sorceress, dressed in a deep emerald velvet gown, speaks up again.

“I was just on my way after, hmm, _tying up some loose ends_ , so there’s no need for you to growl like a mutt. But you’re a special case, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps I’ll leave you with a parting gift instead. It should be fun, turning you inside out. Which, you’re welcome, by the way.”

“The fuck—”

Geralt’s irritated response is quickly cut off when the sorceress murmurs an incantation under her breath that not even his enhanced hearing could make out.

A burst of white light is the last thing Geralt sees before he loses consciousness.

~

“Huh.”

“What _huh_? What does that mean? Is he okay? What is it?”

“It means that I’m assessing your friend, so shut your mouth.”

“Well, that’s very rude—!”

“Jaskier, shut _up_ ,” Geralt says through gritted teeth with a hard shove of his elbow to Jaskier’s ribs.

The bard makes an _oomph_ noise before he meets Geralt’s glare with an annoyed huff. Jaskier looks down at Geralt, mouth opening to make a retort, only to shut it closed when he sees the witcher’s expression. Jaskier purses his lips before he looks away, but not before Geralt glimpses the slight twitch on the bard’s mouth.

If possible, the witcher’s scowl deepens when he sees that. Sure, Jaskier is worried about him, hence why they’re at the village’s local mage right now. But _not only_ can Geralt see the unmistakable concern in the bard’s cornflower blue eyes, but he can also _smell_ the amusement pouring off of him in waves. He obviously finds this whole thing hilarious, no matter how worried he appears to be for Geralt’s welfare after his altercation with that godsdamned witch.

Who has likely fucked off to the other side of the Continent, liking searching for her next victims in some backwater village to do god knows what.

Not really Geralt’s problem anymore. However, his current predicament belies that thought.

After some time, the local mage finally straightens up from examining Geralt. One look at her and Geralt’s stomach sinks in dread when he sees the sympathetic look in her grey eyes.

“I’m afraid I can’t do much for you dear,” the mage, Adelaide, says. She sounds genuinely apologetic when she adds, “It’s a simple curse, but I can’t remove it. Sorry.”

“Why can’t you remove it?” Jaskier asks, frowning.

Adelaide shrugs one shoulder. “Because the only one who can break it is the person who _has been_ cursed.”

Almost in unison, the mage and the bard turn their heads to look at Geralt. He glares at them in return when he discerns Jaskier’s questioning gaze.

“If I knew how to break it, do you think we’d be here asking for the fucking cure in the first place?” he snaps, crossing his arms over his, significantly, smaller chest.

“Language,” Adelaide quips. Geralt’s jaw drops when Jaskier gasps at the mage and doesn’t bother to hide his snort of laughter.

“Not. _Fucking_. Funny.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jaskier says with a shit-eating grin that Geralt is incredibly tempted to wipe off with his _fist_. “It’s pretty funny, actually. Sixteen-year-old you looks absolutely _adorable_ , Geralt!”

Geralt gives Jaskier his dirtiest look, but he knows the effect of his glare is lost because who would take him seriously when he barely reaches the bard’s chest?

~

“You’re not actually going to _carry_ your swords, are you?”

“They’re not that heavy.”

“Hmm, well, no. I know that. But see, we’re trying to be discreet here. If others see a _child_ with a witcher’s swords strapped to their back, they’re going to _wonder_ , and then they’re going to _talk_. That’s the opposite of what we’re trying to do here.”

“Fuck.”

An exasperated sigh.

“You really should mind your language, Geralt. People are going to talk and assume I’m a bad influence on a sweet-faced, innocent-looking chi— _ow!_ ”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

“Rather not, thanks. Now come on, you should ride on Roach, your legs are too— uh. That is, you’re not wearing the proper footwear. And it’s, um, half a day’s ride to the next town. We can settle there first before contacting Yennefer.”

“… Fine.”

“Alright. Great! Here, let me—”

“I _don’t_ need your fucking help. I can get on Roach myself!”

“But—”

_“Jaskier.”_

“Alright, fine! Hands to myself, see?”

A very, very long moment of silence.

Roach whinnies.

_“Fuck.”_

“Um, so—”

“ _Yes_. And _shut up_. We will not speak of this.”

“Sure, Geralt. Sure.”

~

There are a few things which Geralt takes note of:

He’s physically sixteen-years-old again, meaning that his body is not of a Witcher’s, but is instead of a _child’s_. So nobody looks twice at him, in fear or disgust. Frankly, Geralt finds the sudden anonymity refreshing.

Because he looks like he used to before the trials, his hair is back to its original brunet, striking green eyes replacing golden cat-like eyes.

Geralt was never a short person to begin with, but he absolutely detests how Jaskier towers over him. The bard’s cornflower blue eyes twinkles as he smiles impishly _down_ at Geralt, the annoying bastard. Geralt’s petty enough to kick his shin, but chooses not to for some reason. 

Which brings him to his fourth observation:

The human part of Geralt that craves physical affection, that constant phantom ache in his chest that only dulled with time, comes back in almost full force.

And it frightens Geralt how _easy_ it is to allow himself to feel human again.

~

They reach the next town by nightfall.

Jaskier pays for a room at the inn after they stabled Roach. Once they’re in the privacy of their room, Geralt sets down his swords on the writing desk before he rummages through his pack for the xenovox Yennefer gave him a long time ago. 

Jaskier decides not to perform that night, citing that they still have enough coin and _not_ because he doesn’t want to leave Geralt unattended, but the witcher knows otherwise if his scowl is anything to go by. Instead, Jaskier goes down to order them food to be brought to their room while Geralt leaves Yennefer a message.

While they wait for the food, and for Yennefer’s response, Geralt finds himself sitting on the edge of the single bed, toying with the sleeves of his black chemise. It’s too big on his considerably smaller frame, the shirt falling to his mid-thighs and the neckline revealing his shoulders and collarbones. Thankfully, Jaskier bought him clothes that would fit Geralt’s current body at the village they came from, as well as a pair of boots that has seen better days.

But for some reason, Geralt is unable to bring himself to change out of the black shirt. Perhaps it’s to remind himself that this is only temporary, that the curse _can_ be broken.

If only he can figure out _how_ to fucking break it in the first place.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Geralt visibly startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Jaskier looking worriedly at him.

“I’m fine,” Geralt grunts and then shrugs off the bard’s hand, ignoring the way his skin tingles where Jaskier touched him.

Jaskier takes a step back, palms up in a placating gesture.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…” Geralt looks up to arch a brow at Jaskier, who’s biting his lower lip as he debates how he’s going to phrase his next words. After a huff of breath, Jaskier shrugs and says, “You look like you’re about to cry. Eyes glistening and all that.”

Geralt stares at him.

_“What.”_

Jaskier clears his throat. “I said you look like—”

“I heard you the first time.” Geralt rolls his eyes with a huff, and his scowl deepens when it comes out squeaky. _Fuck_ , this is so annoying. Once he breaks this curse, he’s going to hunt down that witch and drive his sword down her throat. “I’m incapable of crying, Jaskier. The Trials—”

He cuts himself off when he feels something wet trickle down his cheek. Geralt’s breath hitches, and when he blinks, he’s mortified to feel _more_ spill from his eyes.

He’s crying. There are literal tears rolling down his cheeks, _what the fuck_.

“You’re crying, see,” Jaskier points outs, fingers twisting on his sides.

“No shit,” Geralt snaps. He hates how his breath hitches when he takes a deep breath.

“Do you, uh, want a hug?” Jaskier asks then.

Geralt slowly lifts his head to glare at him, but it belies that well-known twinge in his chest at the question. It doesn’t help that there’s genuine concern in Jaskier’s expression.

It would be so easy, Geralt thinks. So easy to just give in to what he’s been craving for the most. He knows he doesn’t look like a foreboding monster-hunter, knows that he no longer resembles a monster. But not all scars are visible. And Geralt has learned to deny himself of anything remotely _good_ for so long that it’s as easy as breathing.

Which is why his response is a biting —

_“No.”_

~

Their food arrives and they eat in silence.

Unsurprisingly, they also don’t hear from Yennefer.

That night, Geralt curls up on his side of the single bed, knees drawn up and hands clasped to his chest. He tries to ignore Jaskier’s slumbering form behind him, snoring softly on his stomach. But Geralt can’t help but secretly draw comfort from the bard’s warm and calming presence.

~

Two days later, they’re still in the same small town when Yennefer _finally_ answers Geralt’s call.

The sorceress arrives via a portal. When she steps in their rented room, she takes one look at Geralt, purple eyes widening a bit, before she breaks out into peals of laughter.

Geralt blinks, and he shares a befuddled look with Jaskier across the room, the bard cleaning his lute on the dusty floor.

“Yen,” Geralt growls out in greeting. He winces when his voice cracks, which results in Yennefer breaking out into laughter again.

“Oh, Geralt,” Yennefer breathes out after several minutes. She takes another look at Geralt, and he shifts awkwardly from spot at the end of the bed when he sees the fondness in her expression. _Right_ , she’s always had a soft spot for children. “What the fuck did you get yourself into this time?”

So Geralt tells her everything. The contract he took at the previous village when reports of wives finding their husbands in compromising positions with _other_ husbands; of their cattle turning up in odd locations like the roof of the inn or the bottom of a well.

Geralt initially thought it could be the work of a sub-species of fairy called the Brownies. Although that theory was quickly disproven after his confrontation with the witch, who wreaked havoc on the townspeople when she tracked down an old flame after finding out he was married.

Geralt recalls the distressed expression of the blacksmith. The poor man looked absolutely horrified when he told Geralt that he had no recollection of what happened, just that he woke up naked in bed the next day with his wife’s brother _and_ father-in-law, their bodies sticky with spend.

“The mage is right,” Yennefer agrees, referring to what Adelaide told Geralt and Jaskier the other day. “The spell itself is harmless enough. There’s no side-effects so you can stop your worrying.”

“So how can I break this fucking curse if I don’t even know how to do it?” Geralt asks.

“Ooh, you shouldn’t swear,” Yennefer teases instead with a playful smirk. Jaskier snorts out loud, and Geralt glares at them. “It doesn’t suit this, surprisingly, adorable version of yourself.”

_“Yen.”_

“He _is_ very adorable, isn’t he?” Jaskier butts in, eyes dancing in glee as he and Yennefer trade amused grins.

Geralt’s right eye twitches.

“Hmm, quite so.”

“Tell me how I can break this damn curse!”

Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“Did the witch say anything, then?” she asks, a touch exasperated. “Clearly, her intentions were not malicious, so she must’ve left you a clue.”

Geralt’s brow furrows as he thinks back to that brief conversation. Something niggles at the back of his mind, but he can’t quite fully grasp it yet. Although…

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “She only said that it was a ‘parting gift’. That she thought it’d be fun turning me inside out.”

Something calculating crosses Yennefer before her face clears. She shakes her head and then stands up.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to figure that out yourself, Geralt. Don’t worry, between you and Jaskier, I’m sure you can work something out.”

Then with a casual wave of her fingers, she opens another portal and steps through it. It promptly closes before Geralt can think of a response.

“That sounded ominous,” Jaskier points out after several moments of silence.

Geralt closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh.

_“Fuck.”_

Jaskier tuts. “You really shouldn’t swear, Geralt. It looks so wrong on your—”

“Shut _up_ , Jaskier.”

~

With nothing else to do, they set out on the road once more the following morning.

Geralt remains perched on Roach, his swords strapped securely to the mare’s flank while Jaskier walks beside them.

They decide to stick to the back roads for once, neither willing to risk being ambushed by bandits when Geralt is in this state. Yes, he has all the knowledge of his nearly hundred-year-old self, but physically he would be easily overpowered. It’s a small price to pay, at least until Geralt figures out a way to break the curse.

As Jaskier plays his lute and sings his latest composition, Geralt tunes him out and goes over his conversation with the witch for the umpteenth time.

_“Tell me, when was the last time you didn’t pay someone to touch you?”_

_“But you’re a special case, Geralt of Rivia.”_

_“… leave you with a parting gift instead. It should be fun, turning you inside out.”_

What the fuck does she mean by that?

~

They travel for several days, sometimes passing through a village and staying for the night, only to leave the next day.

Jaskier is easily recognisable, having made a name for himself all these years following Geralt. So it’s evident people will whisper amongst themselves, the curious eyes of the townsfolk they pass by wondering why a famous bard is traveling with a sixteen-year-old boy instead of the White Wolf.

Most nights they camp out in the forest. Fortunately, Geralt happens to be a skilled hunter despite his current predicament, and is able to hunt rabbits and squirrels for their dinner while Jaskier sets up their camp and brushes down Roach.

They learn to make do with what they have. Despite not being able to take contracts, Jaskier earns them enough coin when he performs at taverns, and most of the money that usually goes to maintaining Geralt’s weapons and armour, and stocking up on potion ingredients, goes to food and baths and clothing.

Days turn into weeks, and it’s all good. Until autumn comes.

~

One of the downsides to Geralt being de-aged, as Jaskier calls it, is that he easily gets cold now. It’s only a few weeks into autumn, but the nights are chilly enough that Geralt finds himself shivering in his bedroll. No amount of feeding the fire is able to help warm him up.

That’s why, after a few nights of him tossing and turning and grumbling under his breath, Jaskier decides to finally do something about it.

“Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

_“Geralt.”_

Geralt hears rustling behind him, and he turns when Jaskier’s voice becomes closer. He looks over his shoulder to see the bard has pushed his bedroll right next to Geralt’s.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, too tired and cold to bring himself to sound irritated. He is, but not because of Jaskier’s annoying voice. Which is actually quite pleasant, come to think of it.

 _You are not going down that path,_ Geralt tells himself firmly.

“I should’ve realised sooner that your body temperature doesn’t run the same since, well, you know,” Jaskier rubs the back of his neck, looking contrite. “Physically, you’re smaller than me — oh fuck off, Geralt, I’m not teasing you this time — and that means between the two of us I’m the one who produces more body heat. So.”

Geralt is horrified when he feels his face and ears grow warm. He stares at Jaskier, and for once, the bard sits and patiently waits for him to connect the dots. He does, actually, if the pounding of his heart is anything to go by.

It doesn’t mean anything, he reminds himself. They’ve cuddled for warmth loads of times. But it’s different this time because this time, Jaskier is going to be the one to provide warmth for Geralt. It’ll be Jaskier’s deceptively big arms to wrap around him, Jaskier’s broad chest pressed to Geralt’s back.

It’s bad enough that Witcher!Geralt has feelings for his only friend. At least then he’s able to tamp down his emotions, control his urges. But in _this_ body? Not only is it _wrong_ , but Geralt has little to no control over his emotions, over his body’s response. Look how easy he blushed just now! If Jaskier finds out that Geralt has _feelings_ for him, there’s no knowing what Geralt might do. Probably walk to Brokilon Forest and never leave.

But Geralt is getting exhausted clinging to his anger. He’s exhausted putting up these walls around his heart. From who he’s protecting himself from, he doesn’t know. But maybe, just for tonight, he can let those walls down.

Just for tonight.

“Fine.”

Geralt’s shoulders slump in defeat. If Jaskier is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He smiles brightly and they silently arrange themselves until Jaskier has his arms wrapped around Geralt’s smaller frame, Geralt unable to fight off a sigh of relief when he starts to feel warm.

“This okay?” Jaskier asks softly, chin resting on top of Geralt’s dark locks.

Geralt hums, eyes already closed and on the cusp of sleep.

He hears Jaskier chuckle and mutter something that sounds like “Goodnight, brat”, but Geralt has succumbed to a dreamless slumber before he can think of a retort.

~

“You’re a cuddler,” Jaskier tells him the next day.

Geralt scowls, but he knows it’s no longer a heated stare.

“Shut up.”

Jaskier’s grin is broad and mischievous on his handsome face.

“You _love_ cuddling. Come on, admit it.”

“I’m admitting no such thing.”

“Brat.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What — _brat_? Because you are, you know. A brat.”

_“Jaskier.”_

“Geralt of Brat-ivia. Population: one. Sounds much better tha— _ow!_ ”

_“Shut. Up.”_

~

It becomes a regular thing.

There are mornings when Geralt wakes up and they’re in the same positions as the night before.

There are also mornings when he wakes to Jaskier’s warm breath on his neck, nose tickling the small hairs on Geralt’s nape.

Then there are the mornings when Geralt wakes up with his face buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, an arm slung over a broad chest and and leg draped over the bard’s hip. Something stiff pokes at Geralt’s inner thigh, and it takes him a few minutes to clear his head and realise what’s specifically poking him.

It’s those mornings, like today, that makes the phantom pain in Geralt’s chest ache the worst.

If anything, the past weeks spent as a human has only made Geralt fall further and deeper for Jaskier. A part of him curses at his current plight for allowing himself to become _soft_ , while the louder, more insistent voice in his head tells him, _You deserve this. You can have good things in life, too._

Luckily, he always wakes up first. So the few instances he wakes up sprawled over Jaskier and clinging like a leech, Geralt carefully shifts away from the drooling bard.

~

Geralt blushes more frequently now too, much to his annoyance and Jaskier’s fascination.

“Oh, you have freckles!” Jaskier gasps one time. He tries to peer closer but Geralt, who can feel his palms sweat at the close proximity, does the first thing and pushes the bard’s broad chest. “What a shame it’s no longer visible in your Witcher form.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and sighs when — yup — he feels his cheeks flush darker.

~

“How close are you to figuring it out?” Jaskier asks him one night.

They’re staying at an inn in a village somewhere in Northern Redania, slowly making their way up for the Blue Mountains. Winter is still a month and a half away, but Geralt decided a fortnight ago that they might as well start their journey for Kaer Morhen. At least, if worse comes to worse and he still hasn’t figured it out by then, they would be safe and warm at the keep.

Geralt huffs out a breath. Jaskier shakes his head with a fond smile.

“You can talk to me, you know,” the bard says, and his smile turns doleful. Geralt shuffles his feet, something he never anticipated being in this younger body, and ducks his head to avoid compassionate blue eyes. “I don’t expect you to open up to me, Geralt, but. Well. We’ve known each other for some time now, no? I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” Geralt says emphatically, lifting his head to meet Jaskier’s sad eyes. His clears his throat and softens his tone. “We _are_ friends, Jaskier. It’s just… difficult to parse through what I’m feeling because I’ve spent so long pushing them down that I…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jaskier takes a step towards him. Geralt notices his right hand make an aborted move by his side, but he stops at the last second. “You’re my best friend, Geralt. That means I’m here for you all the way, okay? Take your time. Like Yennefer mentioned before, the spell doesn’t have any side-effects. If it takes all winter or another year until you find a way to break the curse, then that’s okay, too. You won’t be alone.”

For the first time, Geralt doesn’t feel shame when he feels his eyes sting with tears. His throat is uncomfortably tight just then, a sudden swell of emotion building in his chest.

Five weeks ago, Geralt would be snarling and scowling and pushing his friend away.

But now? Now, his head throbs from overthinking and his heart aches from hurting, and all Geralt wants is to be held.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Geralt rasps out. _I don’t think I can take it if you break it._

The smile Jaskier gives him is heartbreakingly sweet.

“My dear, staying by your side was a promise I made to myself many years ago. There’s no way I’m breaking it now.”

And when Jaskier moves to hug him, Geralt lets him. If he presses his face to Jaskier’s chest and clings to him in a vise grip that’s bordering on painful, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He just holds on tighter.

~

Affection comes easier between them after that conversation.

Sure, Geralt still gets tense at times. Still finds it hard to accept that he _does_ deserve this. Soft smiles, warm hugs, and comforting reassurances from his bard.

He’s still the little spoon when they cuddle at night, and Geralt finds that he enjoys being enveloped in Jaskier’s strong arms. So if one morning he wakes up to find himself draped over Jaskier, the bard snoring softly against his hair, and Geralt decides to _fuck it_ and go back to sleep, then that’s for him to know.

But he does make a promise to himself. The first thing he will do once he breaks this curse (which, ironically, no longer seems like one) is he’s going to snog his bard silly.

~

It all comes to a head a few weeks later.

They are at another village, two days away from Vespaden. It’s the last city they’ll be passing through before they begin their trek up the mountains for Kaer Morhen.

Geralt and Jaskier are seated in a corner of the tavern, where they enjoyed the delicious stew and freshly baked bread for dinner. Jaskier had ale while Geralt, much to his annoyance, had water. After their meal, Jaskier gets up with his lute to provide the evening’s entertainment, much to the crowd’s pleasure.

“Good evening, lovely people! I am the humble bard Jaskier—” Geralt snorts at that, not bothering to smother his grin as he observes Jaskier command the room with a few words. “— and I am here to entertain you all night long.”

“He can entertain _me_ all night long.”

Geralt’s ears perk at the drunken remark. He discreetly angles his head and notes a couple of men sitting a few tables away from where he’s perched, looking at Jaskier prance and sing about the room to _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ with expressions that make Geralt’s blood boil.

“Pretty mouth and a pretty face,” another comments, an ugly sneer on his face. “Bet he makes the prettiest noises in bed, too.”

There’s a round of laughter and Geralt grits his teeth, fists clenching on his lap as he forces himself to stay put. There’s nothing he can do in this body, he’ll only cause trouble for him and Jaskier if he makes a move. Like shove a knife down the second drunken patron’s throat for making such disparaging comments about _Geralt’s_ bard.

The rest of the night passes slowly, Geralt unable to enjoy Jaskier’s performance as he silently fumes in his seat while those drunken men continue to make sickening comments about what they’d like to do to Jaskier. Geralt’s anger, which started to simmer at the beginning, has become an inferno that’s demanding to be let out. By the time Jaskier sings the final chorus of _Toss A Coin_ , Geralt doesn’t hesitate to get up from his secluded spot and make a beeline to the sweaty bard.

Jaskier has just finished pocketing the last coins on his heavy pouch when Geralt finally reaches his side. The bard’s eyes light up upon seeing him but it dims when he sees Geralt’s grim face.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, not hesitating to set a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

From his peripheral vision, Geralt can see the drunk men, three of them in total, looking at them suspiciously. Instead of replying, Geralt shuffles closer to Jaskier’s side and wraps an arm around the bard’s waist. Luckily, Jaskier trusts him enough to go with the flow and doesn’t question him when Geralt quite forcefully directs him to the door.

Geralt waits until they make it through the door before he quietly tells Jaskier, “I heard some drunk arsheholes talking despicable things about you.”

The arm Jaskier wrapped around his shoulders tightens by a fraction.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Jaskier tells him reassuringly. “It comes with the bardic profession and all.” He waves a hand nonchalantly.

Geralt makes a disgusted noise.

“That’s not the fucking point, Jas. No one deserves to be talked about like that, least of all you.”

Ah, shit.

Geralt curses himself at that last bit. He doesn’t need to see Jaskier’s slackened expression to know that the bard noticed his accidental slip-up. However, before either of them can say anything, they hear someone holler behind them.

“Oi, bard! You left so soon, pretty boy.”

Ah, fuck.

It’s drunk arsehole #1.

Geralt sees that there’s an alley to their right. The inn is thirty paces away but one quick look alerts him that the street is deserted. Geralt grits his teeth and tightens his arm around Jaskier’s waist. His free arm hangs limp by his side. If this goes tits up, and Geralt knows that it will, then he can quickly pull out the dagger he sheathed on his back. He may be a skinny sixteen-year-old, but Geralt thinks the anger that’s burning in his chest will be enough to subdue these bastards.

“Gentlemen,” Jaskier responds coolly as he, and Geralt, turn to face the three drunken idiots. “As you can see, I am here to escort my… ward to our room at the lovely inn over there. I bid you good night.” Regardless of his slight fumble, Jaskier managed to keep his calm.

Geralt narrows his eyes at drunk arsehole #2, whose eyes quickly glance down at Geralt. His lips curl to reveal crooked, yellow teeth as he sneers at Jaskier.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit.”

“Yeah, come with us, pretty boy,” drunk arsehole #3 implores with a smarmy grin. “We can put that pretty mouth of yours to good use.”

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt snarls and takes a step in front of Jaskier. Of course, he momentarily forgot his size because his menacing stance is met with laughter.

“What are you gonna do, boy?” sneers #2. “Gonna protect daddy from the big bad wolves?”

“More like filthy, shit-stained mutts,” Geralt snaps. He feels Jaskier wince behind him.

“Geralt—”

“The fuck did you just call us,” demands #1. Next to him, #3 pulls out a rusty-looking dagger from the front of his pants.

“You heard me… _mutt_.” Despite the pounding in his heart, Geralt feels the thrum of adrenaline singing in his veins. Oh, he’s definitely missed that feeling.

“You’re going to regret that, you fucking brat,” #3 barks as he takes a step forward.

Behind Geralt, he can sense Jaskier shift, a faint rustling signifying he’s holding the lute like a weapon.

“Gentlemen, please. He’s only a child. There’s no need for vio—”

“Exactly, he’s a _child_. And we’re going to teach the brat a lesson.”

Geralt snarls and this time, doesn’t hesitate to unsheathe the dagger from his back.

“Oh, Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier groans in exasperation.

“Call me ‘brat’ one more time and I won’t hesitate to gut you.”

The second drunken arsehole takes the bait, wobbling forward next to #3.

“Like to see you try, brat,” he taunts.

“You really shouldn’t have said that,” Jaskier points out with a sigh, and then all hell breaks loose.

#2, who is closest to Geralt, blinks in shock when the sixteen-year-old advances towards him, only to lift a leg and _slam_ his foot against the drunk’s crotch. The man goes down on his knees, howling in pain. In a move that even Geralt is surprised by, he manages to flip his dagger and slams the butt of the hilt to the man’s temple before he slumps to the ground.

 _“What the fuck,”_ #1 shrieks in shock, staggering a step back while #3 lunges at Geralt.

Geralt manages to sidestep at the last second. He hooks one foot around the man’s calf, and he’s the next to go down with a yelp. Groaning, #3 is cursing and spitting out mud as he makes a groggy attempt to get up. Geralt is about to knock him out cold with the hilt of the dagger when Jaskier beats him to it.

The bard grips the neck of his lute case before he viciously swings it over the man’s head. There’s a crack of bone breaking and then #3 slumps, unconscious, next to #2.

_“What the fuck?!”_

Geralt and Jaskier turn in unison to see #1. Geralt notes with glee that the poor sod has wet his breeches, the dark stain on his crotch area visible even in the dim light. He steps back when Geralt takes a step forward, fear and confusion swirling in those inebriated eyes.

Geralt fixes the man with a glower that, under normal circumstances, would make anyone faint. Unfortunately, he’s as unthreatening as a cat. Jaskier’s words, not his.

“Better run home if you don’t want to end up like them,” Jaskier threatens, surprising Geralt for a second.

Not needing to the told twice, the man lets out a whimper before he turns and runs away from them. When they can no longer see him, Geralt huffs out a breath and sheathes his dagger once more. He turns to look at Jaskier, a question on the tip of his tongue when he stops at the unreadable expression on Jaskier’s face.

“What?” Geralt asks, brows furrowed.

Jaskier blinks and then shakes his head before he gestures for Geralt to follow him.

“Not here,” Jaskier replies. He casts one last glance at the men on the muddied ground, knocked out and currently snoring, before he looks back at Geralt. “Come on, let’s go. Before anybody else sees us.”

Geralt hums but doesn’t say anything else. Something’s off, and he doesn’t need to have a witcher’s enhanced senses to detect the slight tension between them. Geralt just purses his lips and follows Jaskier to the inn.

~

Once they’re inside their small room, Geralt takes off the black cloak they bought a month ago while Jaskier locks the door. Geralt toes off his boots before he turns to face Jaskier, who is standing quietly near the door and is now staring at Geralt with that impassive look again.

Geralt crosses his arms and grits out, “What?”

Jaskier looks at him for a moment longer before he shakes his head and exhales loudly through his nose.

“I want to be mad at you for that stupid shit you pulled,” Jaskier begins in a mild tone, but before Geralt can protest he raises a hand and continues. “I’m not mad, but I’m quite pissed at you.” Jaskier lets out a sigh as he steps further in the room and starts to remove his silk blue doublet, his movements a bit jerky. “I know I’m being a hypocrite telling you off for almost getting us in trouble but _godsdamnit_ , Geralt, even I thought that was reckless of you!”

Geralt bites his cheek, and he fights off a grimace when he lets his rational mind think over what happened not ten minutes ago.

“I know you were trying to protect my honour, and I really do appreciate it. But for fuck’s sake, Geralt, you should’ve let me handle it. In fact, I _was_ handling it! Until you…”

Geralt tenses, and he clenches his fists that’s still crossed over his chest.

“You and I both know they weren’t going to stop.”

Jaskier stops mid-rant to stare at him.

“Obviously. But they were _drunk_ , Geralt. It’s not like they would have perfect aim when they’re four sheets to the wind. Case in point, two of them are currently unconscious outside since they’re no match for a skinny teen.”

Geralt tenses further at the barbed insult but ignores it for the moment.

“They talked shit about you, I couldn’t let that slide,” he says with a glower when he remembers their filthy and graphic commentary.

“And like I told you earlier, it’s not something I haven’t heard before,” Jaskier retorts with an exasperated expression, hands on his hips. “Besides, why are you so bothered with it all of a sudden? We’ve been traveling for more than a decade now and you never had a problem before.”

Geralt purses his lips. That’s the thing, he’s _always_ bothered by it. Tonight isn’t the first time Geralt felt rage at drunken patrons commenting about the daintiness of Jaskier and how pretty he would look begging and on all fours.

The difference between then and now is rather obvious, and judging by the look on Jaskier’s face, he hasn’t made the connection yet.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Geralt shoots back obstinately.

Jaskier narrows his eyes at him.

“ _Why_ did you think it was a splendid idea to provoke three drunk, and armed, men when you currently look like a strong gust of wind can topple you over?”

Geralt knows Jaskier is pushing his buttons to get a rise out of him. And given that he’s currently a hormonal teenager who doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions even on the best of days, it’s no wonder he reacts accordingly.

“So now you’re being sensible and acting mature,” he spits out. “Where was this side of you before, then? I’ve gotten you out of more absurd situations than this, you don’t get to question my fucking motives.”

Jaskier takes a small step forward.

“Yes, I do. Because until we figure out how to break that godsdamn curse, we both agreed to _lie low_. What happened was the _opposite_ of lying low, Geralt!”

Geralt snarls. “I owe you no fucking explanation!”

“Oh no no no, you owe me a fucking explanation,” Jaskier counters, a vein throbbing in his temple as he meets Geralt’s glower with steely resolve. “I’ve been patient and considerate these past several weeks. Hell, the past fucking decade. But even my patience is wearing thin, Geralt. You never talk to me about your problems, _including_ this stupid curse! All I want to do is help but every time I think you’re letting me in, you take three steps back and shut me out once again!”

 _That’s because what I’m struggling with the most are my feelings for you!_ Geralt screams in his head as he bares his teeth at Jaskier.

“Why do you always have to make it about you?” He answers brusquely, a poor attempt to divert the conversation away from him. “I’m the one who’s cursed, so that makes it _my_ problem. I never asked you to stay in the first place.”

Geralt’s chest tightens when he sees the hurt cross over Jaskier’s face.

“That’s not… that’s not my point, you incorrigible bastard!” Jaskier says indignantly, voice going an octave higher. “Don’t turn this on me! You know I’m not going anywhere, but I’m getting sick of you not letting me in. I just want you to _talk_ to me, is all. I want to understand—”

“Jaskier—”

 _“Help me understand!”_ Jaskier says loudly, desperately, his arms stretched wide and eyes glistening.

Geralt’s breathing quickens. His skin feels stretched, an uncomfortable feeling crawling up his spine. It’s like the walls are starting to close in on him because he’s not yet ready to tell Jaskier. He’s been psyching himself up, yes, but it’s one thing to admit it to yourself and it’s another to bare your heart to someone and not feel like you’re turning yourself inside out.

Something clicks in him.

_Oh, aren’t you a poor, lovesick one… touch-starved, too._

_It should be fun, turning you inside out._

“— even listening to me? Geralt?”

 _Could it be that easy?_ Geralt wonders as he continues to stare at Jaskier. His face is flushed, and he looks so distressed and hurt that all Geralt wants to do right now is hug him and tell him —

“— know you’re allergic when it comes to talking about _feelings_. But for once, Geralt, I just want you to _try_ and tell me—”

“I’m in love with you,” Geralt blurts out.

There’s a heavy silence following that declaration.

Geralt’s heart is in his throat but he remains still as he stares at Jaskier, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“I— you— _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier falters. He’s breathing heavily, and Geralt sees his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows.

Well, it’s not like he has anything more to lose at this point, he thinks with a twist of his lips.

“I’m in love with you, Jas,” Geralt repeats when Jaskier falls silent once more, the bard looking more stunned by the second. Geralt swallows past the lump in his throat and continues. “I have been for a while now. It was easier for me to hide it when I was a witcher. But being in this body and… having these emotions so close to the surface… made it more difficult to keep them from you.”

Then Geralt looks up at Jaskier, only to find the other man staring at him in wonder and disbelief. Even with his heart beating like a hummingbird, he takes courage in the hope he sees reflected in Jaskier’s gaze.

“I’m sorry you felt like I was shutting you out. That was never, I didn’t—” Geralt huffs out a breath of frustration and then tries again. “I was scared. Even before this curse. You make me feel _so much_ , and I ended up ignoring them because it was easier than, than admitting…”

“Admitting what?” Jaskier utters when he trails off, the bard’s voice barely above a whisper.

Geralt doesn’t bother to hide a smile, deep affection swelling in his chest at the brightness returning to Jaskier’s eyes.

“Admitting that even though there are times when you’re annoying or too loud, or even when I tell you to stay far away when I’m working—”

_“Geralt.”_

“— in spite of all the trouble you get us into, I don’t really mind that much because I like taking care of you and,” Geralt pauses with a crooked smile. And it’s like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, the vise grip around his chest loosening until he can breathe properly again. “And because I love you.” Geralt gulps, and pushes himself to say, “And I want to be yours… if you will have me?”

There’s a pause before Jaskier opens his mouth. But before he can utter a word, something happens.

Geralt’s vision turns white as a blinding light encompasses the room, something shifting in him. Then he hears Jaskier’s alarmed voice, followed by the telltale ripping of fabric. Just as it began, the bright light fades until the room is bathed once more in the orange glow of the fire. He blinks away the dark spots in his vision before his eyes land on Jaskier ogling him, mouth hanging open.

He tilts his head and asks, “What—”

Then Geralt startles when he hears his deep, gruff voice. He blinks and then looks down at himself and, _oh_. The clothes he was wearing now lay torn on the ground as Geralt, _finally_ back in his hulking form, stands stark naked in front of his bard.

“So that’s all it took,” Jaskier starts. Geralt looks up and narrows his eyes when he sees Jaskier’s lips twitch in amusement. “To break the curse, you simply had to _talk_ about your feelings.”

Geralt feels his own mouth twitch. The irony isn’t lost on him either.

“Hmm.”

“Oh ho-ho-ho, you don’t get to hum and grunt and hide away from me again, witcher,” Jaskier wags his finger at Geralt as he takes a step forward. “From now on, you _use_ your words.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Geralt says instead.

Jaskier hums and then stops in front of him. Cornflower blue eyes meet golden for a moment.

“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier declares adoringly. He’s smiling that heartbreakingly sweet smile Geralt cherishes so. “And of _course_ I’ll have you, you silly man. I’ve been yours since we met. Took you look enough to catch up.”

Instead of responding, Geralt pulls Jaskier closer and kisses the grin from his bard’s enticing lips. Geralt’s chest rumbles when he feels those deceptively strong arms wrap around his shoulders, one hand burying in his silver-white hair while the other cups his stubbled jaw.

Geralt’s never been more grateful for his mutations when he breathes in and smells the intoxicating scent of his bard: lavender, peaches, sunshine. And underneath all that, the musky scent that’s pure _Jaskier_.

“I love you,” he mutters against his bard’s lips, who whispers it back to him.

Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and holds him tight. He has no intention of ever letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly happy with how this turned out but I still hope you enjoyed reading it.
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](https://jaskierstark.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi.


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